


Pavlove

by orphan_account



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 15:52:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17921834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Patrick almost misses the sound of the knock against his door, so loud is the rain pounding on his roof. But he hears it, and even though he knows, deep in his gut, who it is, he goes to open it anyway.





	Pavlove

Patrick almost misses the sound of the knock against his door, so loud is the rain pounding on his roof. But he hears it, and even though he knows, deep in his gut, who it is, he goes to open it anyway.

“Go home, Pete,” he says as he pulls the door open. “It’s almost fucking midnight.”

“But - Trick, I need, fuck, please, I need you to - my head won’t shut up. And I miss you.”

“Pete. Go home.”

But Pete’s already forced his way inside, wet hair and clothes dripping water all over the floor, a drowned rat in headlights. He’s shivering and looking so lost that Patrick can’t bring himself to send him away. “C’mon then, you’ll get sick if you stay in those clothes.”

Pete perks up a tiny bit as he follows Patrick down the hall to Patrick’s bedroom, but his shoulders deflate again as Patrick continues to the bathroom. “Patrick,” he says, “Patrick, please, just fucking, I’m going to, god, you don’t understand. Ash doesn’t fucking get what I need, but you do, and-“

“And that’s your problem,” Patrick says firmly as he starts running bath water. “I’m your friend and you know I’ll help you no matter what, just… not with this. It’s fucked up.”

“It’s not fucked up, Trick, I’m sure Ashlee’s off doing the same fucking thing with someone else. And I don’t - it doesn’t have to be anything complicated, I can’t go back with marks anyway.”

“Just get in the bath,” Patrick says, cutting the water off. “I’m going to actually fucking help you, okay, not make this worse, and then you’re going to go home to your wife and kid and stop doing this. I told you last time that that was it.”

“I know,” Pete says, “but-”

“Shh,” Patrick murmurs, pressing a finger to Pete’s lips in a manner far more gentle than anything he’s done tonight. “Just, shut up for a second, alright? I’m sorry for being harsh. I just… I can’t keep being your other woman, Pete, even as much as I. Well, you know.” Pete does know, he knows exactly how badly Patrick wants to be. But thankfully, he doesn’t say anything.

Pete throws his hoodie and shirt onto the floor, followed by his jeans and boxers, and Patrick can see how he’s trying to make himself appealing with slow traces of his hands and dark eyes.

“Pete,” Patrick says firmly. “I’m not fucking doing this tonight.”  
  
Pete sighs, curls in on himself even more than before, and slides down into the warm water. “Thanks, I guess,” he says quietly. “For the bath. It’s nice.”

Patrick sighs as well. He can feel a headache beginning to form behind his eyes. “You’re welcome. Here, one second.”

He reaches into the cabinet under his sink and finds a washcloth and a liquid soap. Patrick pours the soap onto the cloth, dips it in the water, and starts to rub slow circles across the planes of Pete’s back. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend that this is after a session. Before Ashlee even existed on Pete’s radar. When Patrick would be in the bathtub behind Pete, slowly working away the tension Pete stored in his shoulders after being tied to the bed for hours. When Pete’s back and ass would be bruised red and mottled purples, bruises that Patrick would catch him subconsciously pressing on for days afterward. When Patrick didn’t feel like he was going to throw up from guilt whenever he kissed Pete.

But Patrick keeps his eyes open. He watches Pete begin to calm down, eyes still desperate but mouth shut in a thin line. He watches as his hands gently explore all of the skin he’s been trying to forget, every line of ink still as familiar as Patrick hates it to be.

They don’t speak for almost an hour. Patrick rests his head on Pete’s shoulder and breathes for a long time, wanting nothing more than to tilt his head up and kiss Pete. The only problem is that Pete might taste like lipgloss and Ashlee’s favorite peppermint chapstick and the fact that he’s married.

Pete begins to shiver eventually, though, as the water turns cold. Patrick forces himself to stand and get a towel from the hall closet, hoping against hope that Pete’s ready to go home now.

Pete, of course, is not.

He’s on his knees on the bathmat when Patrick returns, dripping wet but evidently not caring in the slightest.

“Pete…” Patrick says, the flicker of a headache returning. It’s one am, and he’s fucking exhausted.

“Please.” Pete’s voice is almost inaudible before he lifts his head and faces Patrick. “Please, Trick. Please. I just - I need this. One last night.”

“That’s what you said last time.” Patrick doesn’t mention that last time, he didn’t want Pete to mean it. But that was before Bronx, and things are so fucking different now that it hurts.

“I mean it,” Pete says, “I swear I do. One last night. I’ll come back tomorrow if that’s what it takes, if you need time to think it over. Just. Nothing complicated. Just us.”

Patrick frowns. “You don’t get to talk about us, okay, especially not while you’re still wearing your goddamn wedding ring.”

Pete looks down at his hands like he’s almost forgotten about the small silver band before deliberately sliding it off and nestling it into the pile of his clothes that still lies on the floor. “What about now?”

Patrick wants to say no. He needs to say no, he should say no.

And okay, Patrick hates himself for even thinking it. Hates himself for the way  the anger he pretends not to hold at Ashlee and the world in general is masquerading as logic, shaping itself into a plan to make Pete realize that this is wrong. Of course, all that is nothing compared for how much he hates himself for spitting out, “Fine. One last time. Bedroom, now.”

It’s a cliché expression, sure, but Patrick swears he can literally feel a switch flip as he orders Pete to lie facedown on the bed. The dull ache that’s been lying in Patrick’s stomach since Pete whispered that he was going to propose to Ashlee intensifies to a bright sting.

(Pete had been lying naked in Patrick’s bed when he said it, wincing from the welts on his back as he turned away.

“Why now?” Patrick’s first question had been. “I thought… you said you were going to tell her about us.”

Pete’s murmur of, “She’s pregnant,” was a fucking kick in the gut to Patrick, all of the implications of PeteandAshlee even though PeteandPatrick was supposed to come first. Pete once said that Ashlee would just be a cover until Patrick was ready to come out. Funny how things change.)

Patrick shakes the past away as he steps closer to Pete, skates his fingers along Pete’s spine before jerking his hand away. No. He’s not going to be fucking tender today. Not when Pete has spent the past two years making it oh-so-fucking-clear what Patrick means to him.

“What do you want?” Patrick says. He keeps his voice as flat as possible, trying to hide from Pete that he wants this just as much as Pete, that his world fucking revolves around nights like these, because he can’t let that be true anymore. “You can talk.”

“Anything you want,” Pete says, turning his head slightly to face Patrick. “Please. Just no marks.”

Patrick’s fine with that. Leaving marks means leaving something about him on Pete, and he’s not going to let himself do that anymore. They’re just friends after this night.

“On your knees. Hold out your hand.”

Shorter, clipped sentences work best right now, because Patrick’s feeling dangerously close to slinging out pet names or insults. He’s not sure which would be worse.

Pete follows his instructions silently, his careful breaths loud in the dimly lit room. His hand shakes just a bit as he holds it out for Patrick.

Patrick leans down and spits into Pete’s hand, unable to help a small smirk when Pete flinches, wrinkles his nose just a bit. Good. He wants to take Pete apart so he can see that Patrick’s not the one that can put him back together.

“Open yourself up,” Patrick orders.

Pete’s brow creases in the way it always does when he asks a question he already knows the answer to. “Lube?”

“Use the spit. I’ll get lube once you’re ready - if you’re good.”

With that, Patrick turns away, in part to grab supplies but mostly to avoid seeing Pete’s face when he pushes his fingers in.

(He can’t risk looking, not when he’s seen those wide eyes and slightly open mouth too many times to count. Not when Pete used to look up at him with love as Patrick slowly unwound him from the shoulders down.

There had been this one night, exactly six months B.A. (Before Ashlee), when Pete had wanted to try something new and ended up with Patrick’s entire hand up his ass.

It was the first and only time they’d ever tried fisting. Patrick spent the entire hour of stretching, lube, more stretching, and more lube in absolute awe. Pete just fell apart in the best way possible, shattering and reforming every time Patrick so much as twitched his fingers.

After it was over, one of the first coherent things that Pete had been able to gasp out was, “We have to do that again.”

Of course, Ashlee showed up before they followed through, and Patrick couldn’t bring himself to take that much from Pete when he knew that someone else might be getting it too.)

Patrick scrubs a hand across his face as he reaches into his bedside drawer to grab a condom and lube. The soft, barely perceptible sounds that Pete’s making from behind him are twisting his gut into a fucking awful mixture of turned on from all of the history this room holds and nauseous from everything about tonight. It’s a terrible idea to go through with this, and Patrick damn well knows it, but that doesn’t stop him from turning back to Pete with a poorly concealed sigh.

Pete looks - he looks fucking gorgeous, he always does, eyes closed and back arched and skin already beginning to glisten with sweat as he slowly stretches himself open. He looks fucking gorgeous and Patrick hates knowing that he has to lose him.

“Are you ready?” Patrick forces out. He feels like there’s barbed wire around his throat as he unbuttons his jeans and pushes them just far down enough for his cock to hang out, and he hates knowing that he’s the one that put it there. There’s no response as Patrick slides the condom and some lube over his cock and he sighs as he repeats the question a little louder. “Ready?”

Pete’s voice is already halfway to being wrecked as he says, “Yes, sir.”

Patrick cringes at the title. Pete only uses it when he thinks he’s messed up and he’s dying for approval, and Patrick fucking hates knowing that it’s his fault Pete feels like that. “Don’t call me that,” Patrick says, snappier than he’d intended.

There’s a second where Pete pauses, like he’s unsure where to stand now that the tectonic plates that lie under Patrick’s sheets have shifted, but then he lifts his head up a bit. “Sorry, Patrick.”

And fuck, that feels just as bad. That makes it them, that means that this is really PeteandPatrick and it’s the last time this is going to happen. “Just - don’t talk,” Patrick mumbles. He holds back an apology, because he knows that if he starts going down the list of his regrets he’ll never stop.

Pete is silent after that, even when Patrick steps up to the edge of the bed and pushes into him with more force than strictly necessary. Patrick’s almost surprised that he’s hard right now, what with everything swirling in his head, but his body is fucking Pavlov’d to this view of Pete, the tattoos on his back and the hair at the nape of his neck shining with sweat and the muscles in his throat and arms working as he tries to stay quiet and still.

For a few minutes, the room is almost silent save the slap of skin against skin and Patrick’s huffed breaths. But then Patrick starts talking, almost involuntarily, he’s never been one for dirty talk. He’s not even sure if the words falling from his lips qualify.

“I hope you’re fucking enjoying this, cause it’s the last time I’m going to be waiting here when you get tired of your fucking wife. I shouldn’t be letting you be such a goddamn whore. You’re not even that good of a fuck, you know. I’m sick of smelling perfume on you like you really are just some slut out on the street.”

A small sound escapes Pete’s lips, a moan or a stifled sob and Patrick can’t let himself tell the difference because it’s not a stop, so he just slaps Pete across the back and says, “Shut the fuck up.”

And Pete does. And Patrick does, too, for just a couple more minutes before he’s coming, not even a good orgasm but that same goddamn Pavlovian response. Pete whimpers a little as Patrick pulls out, but he’s quick to fall silent again as Patrick raises a hand.

“You can get yourself off if you want, I don’t care. You just can’t stay here.”

Patrick forces himself to turn away, forces himself to swallow down the nausea building in his gut as he thinks about what he said to Pete, about what he said to Pete during the last time they’d ever fucking do this. He’s trying not to regret it but the lump in his throat is making that nearly impossible.

Patrick grabs Pete’s clothes from the bathroom floor, taking special care to place his wedding ring on top of the now-folded stack, and carries them back out to the bedroom. Pete slides the ring back on first without meeting Patrick’s eyes.

“Thank you,” Pete says, but it doesn’t sound like he means it.

“You should get going.”

“Patrick, I- Maybe once Bronx is older, we can talk about this, we can -“

“You should get going,” Patrick repeats, firmly fixing his eyes on the floor and not on Pete’s crestfallen face.

And Pete does. The only sound to announce his departure is the soft click of the door shutting, and then Patrick’s alone again. His bank account is lucky that he only manages to punch two holes through the drywall before he falls asleep.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. :)


End file.
